Too Strong For Make Believe
by Ghilanna Faen Tlabbar
Summary: It was going to be a very strange courtship. Oneshot. Latimer/Sister-of-Mine.


**Too Strong For Make-Believe**

"Come in, lads, and have yourselves a seat."

Two lines of boys in their teens filed into the General's study, a spacious room that was furnished far better than the rest of the barracks. The light of the fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth twinkled over bearskin rugs, a handsome mahogany desk and a large wall-mirror set in an ornate gilt frame, among other things. It was on the rugs that the boys deposited themselves, not carelessly as per usual, but like trained soldiers. They kept their formation perfectly as they sat in front of their commander. Good little soldiers who would be dispatched tomorrow, off to the fields of Flanders and into the battles of the Great War.

The boys were from many different locations in the British Isles, and their ages were as far apart as their home towns. However, in this crowd, one could recognize several of the "Farringham Boys". These were the students from the school of the same name, who had been attacked by "madmen" the year before. One of their number, Timothy Latimer, had been leading the right column all day. Still as scrawny and pale as of yore, several of the larger boys had resented his appointment to such an important post. Latimer seemed quite oblivious to their mutterings as he fixed his pale eyes on General Whately, a portly fellow who seemed like he would be more at home being a pompous banker rather than a military man. He coughed into his handkerchief several times before rising to his feet.

"Gentlemen, please pay attention," Whately rumbled. "Tomorrow, you will be sent across the channel. At noon, you will be standing in the streets of Paris. So I will be brief. I fought in Africa. It was hell. I marched until I had holes in my boots and fought for my life almost daily. I fought the Zulu, and their spears which cracked men's skulls, their fearsome warcries and terrible, clacking language. I saw more horrific, stranger things than you have ever seen—"

Latimer started. The General's words were not what had caught him off guard. For a moment, he…but that was impossible. A trick of the fire's light in the mirror, the boy told himself firmly.

"—I saw more horrific, stranger things than you could even _imagine_. I would not live through it in my worst nightmare, but Gentlemen, I should strap on my boots today and march back and do it all again if Her Majesty asked it. Make no mistake, you will see things you never wished to see and that seem stranger than anything before."

One of the other Farringham Boys, Private Hutchinson, let out a snort. Latimer controlled himself far better, but even as General Whately sent a withering glare in his comrade's direction, he was in silent agreement. Their General had never faced an army of scarecrow-men or body-snatching entities. And as for men of color, Martha had been of their race and she was neither a barbarian nor a terrifying warrior.

After a sufficient length of time staring down Hutchinson, General Whately continued on with his speech.

"But I tell you now that you must do it for the queen. I hurt my leg in the war, and can hardly walk without this cane, but how I wish I could trade this useless stick in for a rifle and head off to the trenches with you now."

"_Little boy."_

Latimer started again, this time more noticeably. It was only a little girl's voice, hardly more substantial than a daydream, but it cracked through his mind like a horsewhip. The sensation was so poignant that he could not very well be imagining it. He shook his head, as if to clear off a fly, and forced his attention back to the droning of the General.

"We are at the dawn of a new type of warfare. War fought in holes dug in the earth. Where I had a rifle, you have been granted machine guns. But they all kill the same, and they will all be used against the same people. The enemies of England—"

"_Don't ignore me, little boy."_

Again, the curious lash of pain through his head. He narrowed his eyes, which was the least noticeable coping mechanism he possessed, and clenched his teeth.

"What?" He muttered, half aloud.

"The enemies of the QUEEN! Gentlemen, you are the lucky ones. Because war—"

"_Look in the mirror, little boy. "_

"And why should I do that?" Latimer muttered, passing his hand over his eyes.

"_Because you know me,"_ the voice said simply.

"—is a messy affair. Oh yes, there will be blood... But I tell you, War! Is! GLORIOUS!"

Since it would seem that General Whately was too wrapped up in his own eloquence to spare a glance at him, Latimer turned to the mirror that hung just over the man's left shoulder. His jaw dropped.

There was a girl in the doorway. Latimer turned his head just far enough so he could see the actual doorway, not the doorway in the mirror. No one there. He turned back to the mirror.

"_Do you recognize me?"_

"That is all. You are dismissed. Latimer, Thompson, you may lead your rows back to the main barracks. Good night, gentlemen. Sleep well!"

There was a shuffling of boots on the bearskin rug, and the two rows got to their feet. Latimer took a quick glance at the mirror, and saw that the girl, still hidden behind the door, had narrowed her eyes. As he left the room, her voice drifted within his ken.

"_You and I will talk. Later tonight."_

It was late, far later than Latimer should have been awake. But the fact of the matter was that he lay restlessly upon the white counterpane of his army bunk, not even bothering to have pulled it up over himself. He turned over, staring down aimlessly into the surface of the water jug on the bedside table.

"_I told you we'd talk later, didn't I?"_

He sat up so fast that he knocked the top of his head on the ceiling. Hissing in pain, he placed a hand on his head and looked back down into the jug.

"_Come along, little boy, it's hard for me to appear here. It's not a mirror; it's only a reflective surface. That fat man who wouldn't stop talking earlier, he has a very nice mirror. Come to me there."_

"I can't," Latimer snapped, more because of the throbbing in his head than anything. "General Whately would be less than overjoyed to see me skulking in his study, especially at this time of night."

"_That man's a __**General**__?"_

"Yes."

There was an odd snorting sound accompanying the crack in his head, and Latimer assumed that the voice was laughing. He was surprised to find that it was actually irritating.

"_Well, in any event,"_ the voice said, when it was able to control itself, _"he is…what's the word you humans use for that?"_

"What?"

"_That state of resting you have."_

"Sleeping?"

"_Yes."_ The voice had begun to get a little fuzzy in his head. _"Sleeping. Go to the mirror, it's awfully hard to talk from here…"_

"All right, all right, " Latimer muttered, swinging his feet out of bed. His boots—for the boys had all slept in uniform to save time boarding the troop ships—clunked hard on the stone floor, and he stood quietly for a moment. No one seemed to have been disturbed. As quietly as he could (and he could be very quiet), Latimer retraced the same steps he had taken earlier that evening, up to the imposing double doors of Whately's study.

The squeak of the door was rather pronounced, at least in his ears, as he pushed it open. Latimer flinched. Not bothering to re-shut the huge oaken entry, he trod softly across the bearskin rug, the dying embers throwing his shadow into weird relief upon the walls.

After what seemed hours to the young soldier, he stood directly in front of the colossal mirror. There was no movement upon the smooth surface. Latimer whistled quietly.

"You wanted me, I'm here," he murmured to the empty pane of glass. "Why did you call?"

And from behind the doors reflected in the mirror, there came Sister-of-Mine.

The first thing he noticed was that she wasn't in proper clothing. She was, in fact, in a thin white nightdress. A gentleman would have pretended not to notice, Latimer knew this well, but the shock was such that he could not look away.

She narrowed her eyes. _"What are you staring at?"_

"Sorry," he said quickly, dropping his eyes to display a sincerity that he did not feel.

"_I did not ask for apologies, I asked what you were staring at."_

"Well…er…you—"

"_I am what, little boy?"_

He glanced up, looking away almost instantly after noting that her shoulders were bare. "You're in a nightdress."

"_And what is wrong with that?"_

"Ladies and gentlemen do not meet in nightclothes," he responded, almost as though reciting the Catechism.

"_I don't see why. It's such a lovely gown. And for your God's sake," _she added irritably, "_if we're going to talk, I want you to look at me."_

"You told me not to stare."

"_Is it so hard to look at me without being rude?" _There was a strange note in her voice. _"Can't you just try?"_

"Do you really want me to?"

There was a pause. _"Yes," _she said at last. _"Now, look at me. Please."_

It was the last word that caught Latimer's attention. He looked up at the surprising humility in her tone, his training screaming otherwise. He found himself flushing bright red upon discovering he was fascinated with the way the light from the small candle in her hand fell across the ruffles of the low neckline, throwing shadows _just so._

This didn't pass beneath Sister-of-Mine's notice, though. She smiled and the nightgown slipped down her right arm, poised at a dangerous angle. Latimer twitched, extremely uncomfortable with the way the rendezvous was going. Her smile turned into a grin, and there was a sparkling taunt in her eyes, something that did not belong in the face of a little girl. The boy found that his knees were buckling, and he quickly sat down on the bearskin, exactly where he had been hours before. In the mirror, she followed, sitting next to his reflection.

She cocked her head at his rigid silence. _"You're awfully quiet."_

"I don't know what to say." It was the best answer he could come up with, under the circumstances. "I don't know why you want me here."

Her expression changed. The smile fell, but the light stayed in her eyes, more hectic than teasing. _"Surface memories,"_ she said shortly.

"I'm sorry?"

"_This girl's got a rather active imagination, wouldn't you say?"_

"She always did," he murmured.

"_But then…these thoughts of you, they're so strange! I have known desire, and these are nothing like it…they're too strong to be make-believe."_

Latimer was on his feet before he knew it, glaring at the red-faced girl in the mirror. "It's hardly fair, rummaging around in her thoughts like that," he snarled. "You've taken her from me, can't you stop there?"

"_Taken her from you?"_ She blinked, nonplussed. "_She's right here."_

"You're not!" His eyes blurred with furious tears. "You're a shell of her, a husk…you're not even properly alive!"

There was a sudden, awesome silence in his head. He blinked away the mists and what started as a stare of pure hatred quickly degenerated into a look of concern. She had gone quite white, her freckles standing out like ink-stains. Her fingers were clenched on the hem of her skirt, twisting it savagely, the delicate cloth fraying in her hands.

"_You think I'm not properly alive?"_ There was a rage in her tone, barely contained. His head ached with the raw emotion of it. _"Little boy, you don't even know what living is! You, who have never known a flight across the sky, planet to planet, star to star…you just exist! How __**dare**__ you tell me I don't live! You never loved this girl a fifth of what she thought of you, and what I now share—"_

She stopped suddenly, pursing her lips over the words she had never meant to say. Latimer was staring unabashedly now, his mouth hanging open. Sister-of-Mine, _nee_ a lovelorn Lucy Cartwright, sighed through her nose and leaned back on her palms.

"_Anyway, that's what I've come to tell you."_

He laughed, short and humorless. "You came all this way to deliver the message that your hostess was in love with me?"

"_No,"_ she said, and there was a certain sincerity in her tone. "_I came all this way to carry out what she would have wanted to happen."_

"Oh?"

"_Namely that she wanted to be your "pedestalled lady"." _She paused at the perplexed look on his face. "_Too many romance novels, I think. She did have quite a collection of them. But she seems to think you would make quite the beau."_

"It'd be a strange courtship," said he, dubiously.

"_Worth it, though?"_ She was smiling again.

"Possibly."

"_You're dismissed, then."_ She stood, rearranging her ruffles so they were no longer in danger of falling and revealing any unmentionables.

"Beg your pardon?"

"_You can leave now. Wouldn't want you to miss your troop-ship because you overslept." _She grinned impishly and rose to leave. In the mirror, he saw that she had taken his reflection's hand in her own. Latimer found that his right hand was clasping dust. It was odd, though…for a moment, he could have sworn that he held the small, warm hand of a little blond girl and not airy illusions reflected in a pane of glass.

After a moment, and with a resigned nod, Sister-of-Mine released his reflection. As if at a dance, Timothy Latimer bowed gallantly to his lady-love, and she dropped an awkward curtsey in return.

Silence again as she disappeared through the dim doorway reflected in the mirror.

It was several numb minutes before the boy could find the will to unstick himself from the position he had taken on the rug. The odd conversation seemed, thank God, not to have disturbed the General in the next room over, and so Latimer slipped out the way he had come, taking care to shut the creaky oak doors as quietly as possible.

His boots seemed to have wings as he ran back to his bunk, making no noise at all. Latimer was beyond logic now, guided by some other force, as he knelt down and roughly shook Hutchinson awake, something he would not have dared in normal circumstances.

"Whassamatter?" The private said groggily, once he had been rattled to sufficient consciousness.

"Have you got a hand mirror?"

"A what? Latimer, have you lost your mind?"

"Not at all. I'm just asking."

Hutchinson looked at the scrawny blond for a moment, clearly doubting that statement. Timothy Latimer shifted from foot to foot.

"Rucksack, side pocket," he said finally. "I catch it broken and you'll get thrashed, is that clear?"

Too busy to wonder why exactly the said mirror would be so precious to Hutchinson, Latimer nodded and rooted it out of the bag. By the time he had it fully out in the moonlight, the other boy had fallen back asleep with several noisy snores. Stifling a smile, Latimer scrambled back into his bunk with the precious mirror and laid it under his pillow.

"A very strange courtship indeed," he murmured.


End file.
